(1  (1  (1 


IH=e  FARRIER'S 
DOG-AND-HIS 


WILL-ALLEN 
DROMGOOLE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  FARRIER'S  DOG 

AND 

HIS  FELLOW 


;  DO  LOOK  AT   US,   EVERYBODY  — ' " 
See  p.  10 


THE  FARRIER'S   DOG 


AND 


HIS   FELLOW 


BY 

WILL   ALLEN    DROMGOOLE 


Illustrated  by  Amy  M.  Sacker 


BOSTON 
L.  C.  PAGE    AND    COMPANY 

(IN-CORPORATBD) 
1897 


Copyright,  7^97 

BY  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 


Colonial 

H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A, 


"PZ-7 


CONTENTS 

I.    THE  Doc , 

H.    THE  BOY 10 

ILL    THE  THIEF'S  DOG  .        .     •  .       .       .       .  17 

IV.    THE  DOG'S  MESSAGE 27 

V.    A  VAGABOND 34 

VI.    THE  FELLOW 43 

VLL    OLD  ACQUAINTANCES     .....  54 

VUL    To  THE  GREEN  HILLS   ......  66 


661664 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

" '  Do  LOOK  AT  Us,  EVERYBODY  — ' "       .         Frontispiece 

BAYDAW  AND  THE  FARRIER      .....  3 

AT  THE  CIRCUS 15 

THE  STORY  .........  19 

"A  GROUP  OF  IDLE  BOYS"       .....  35 

"'  WOMEN  is  so  GOOD'"  .        .       .       .       .       .  41 

" '  I  RECKON  WE'RE  FELLOWS  ' "              .       .        .  49 

"'Us  "  FELLOWS "  Go    HOME   BY    WAY   OF  THE 

BAKER'S'" 57 

"•WILL  You  GIT  Our — '" 61 

•"HE'S  THE  ONLY  FRIEND  I'VE  GOT'"  ...  71 


E»d,  &*I 

A   DEAR  AND  LOYAL  FRIEXD 


THE  FARRIER'S  DOG 

AND 

HIS  FELLOW 
I. 

THE    DOG. 

THE  dog  was  a  cur;  a  common  yellow  cur. 
Though  to  be  sure  there  were  those  who,  know- 
ing his  good  qualities,  —  for  really  the  cur  was 
possessed  of  some  very  good  qualities  indeed, — 
declared  there  was  a  strain  of  the  shepherd  in 
his  blood.  This  idea  may  have  arisen  from  the 
unmistakable  crinkle  in  his  big,  bushy  tail, 
which  (the  crinkle  I  mean),  later  in  life,  won 
for  its  owner  the  name  of  "Old  Crink."  At 
the  beginning,  however,  and  before  for  love's 
sake,  or  for  sorrow's  sake,  he  became  a  vaga- 
bond (there  are  or  have  been  men  who  have 
done  the  same  thing  e'er  this),  the  cur  bore  a 


2  THE    FARRIERS    DOG. 

very  different  name.  He  was,  in  fact,  called 
"  Baydaw  "  those  first  years  of  his  life,  when  he 
hung  about  the  farrier's  shop  at  the  heels  of  the 
boy  who  gave  him  his  unusual  name.  Odd  it 
was,  too,  to  see  the  big,  brown,  sooted  farrier 
bend  over  to  lay  his  broad  black  palm  upon  the 
yellow  cur's  neck  caressingly,  and  to  hear  him 
say,  "Baydaw,  boy?  Poor  Baydaw,  poor  boy," 
for  all  the  world  so  like  the  boy  bad  been  used 
to  say  it  that,  had  you  known  them  all,  the  boy, 
the  dog,  and  the  farrier,  you  had  but  to  close 
your  eyes  and  fancy  it  was  the  little  boy  who 
was  talking  to  the  dog,  not  the  big  horse  doctor 
and  blacksmith  at  all.  There  came  a  time  when 
the  tears  would  start  in  the  big  farrier's  eyes  as 
he  stooped  to  caress  the  dog ;  and  he  would  in- 
voluntarily look  about  him,  over  and  behind  the 
big  anvil,  near  the  bellows,  for  the  boy  who  had 
been  used  to  sit  there.  But  there  was  no  boy 
there.  Then  it  was  the  farrier  would  brush  his 
eyes  with  the  least  smutted  corner  of  his  apron 
made  of  strong,  striped  bedticking,  and  tell  the 
cur  to  "go  along  now,"  in  a  tone  that  meant 
his  bone  and  bed  were  waiting  over  by  the 
slack  tub  under  the  shed  outside. 

But  I  am  going  too  fast ;  far  too  fast.     Who- 


THE    DOG.  3 

ever  told  a  story  without  beginning  at  the  first  ? 
And  the  first  must  necessarily  be  the  birth  of 
the  hero  ;  and  the  hero  of  this  story  is  a  dog ; 
at  least  he  is  one  of  the  heroes  ;  the  Fellow,  who 
is  the  other  hero,  we  haven't  come  to  him.  Oh, 


no  ;  the  farrier  was  not  the  Fellow ;  nor  was  the 
little  boy  who  named  the  dog  "  Baydaw."  We 
will  come  to  the  Fellow  by  and  by;  I  knew 
him,  and  I  knew  the  dog ;  sorry  dogs,  both  of 
them,  some  will  tell ;  yet  they  were  both  pos- 


4  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

sessed  of  their  "good  strains  in  the  blood,"  so 
said  those  who  knew  them. 

But  about  the  little  boy  who  was  not  the  Fel- 
low ;  it  was  he  who  saved  the  dog's  life.  What 
was  the  boy's  name  ?  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter 
at  all.  I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  heard  his 
name.  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  necessary  here ; 
he  is  in  the  story  such  a  little,  little  while  that 
we  will  just  call  him  "the  boy."  Though  if 
you  have  a  dog,  and  love  him,  perhaps  you  will 
sometimes  think  of  the  little  boy  who  saved  the 
life  of  the  farrier's  dog. 

It  happened  this  way  :  One  morning  the  far- 
rier opened  the  door  of  his  shop,  and  found  a 
litter  of  young  dogs  lying  there  upon  the  shop 
floor.  He  wasn't  a  bad  man,  this  big  farrier, 
neither  was  he  a  great  lover  of  dogs.  Of 
course  he  could  not  have  an  entire  family  of 
them  housed  upon  him  there  in  the  shop.  So 
when  the  children  around  (the  farrier  had  no 
family  of  his  own,  poor,  lonely  old  fellow !)  had 
set  up  a  cry  for  them,  he  had  very  willingly  let 
them  go  ;  all  but  one  :  there  had  chanced  to  be 
one  dog  too  many;  and  that  dog  was  destined 
for  the  mill-pond.  Yes,  the  cur  was  to  be 
drowned.  You  see  it  was  before  the  farrier 


THE    DOG.  5 

had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  little  boy 
who  saved  the  dog's  life ;  after  that,  he  would 
never  have  drowned  a  dog,  no,  not  if  there  had 
been  a  dozen  of  them  found  in  the  shop  every 
day.  Thus  is  the  influence  of  a  child  a  very 
great,  a  very  wonderful  thing  indeed.  It  was 
the  morning  that  the  farrier  was  carrying  the 
dog  off  to  the  pond  that  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  boy.  He  was  passing  the  big  brick 
house  upon  the  hill,  the  new  house  that  had 
been  built  for  the  president  of  the  mill  com- 
pany, who  had  moved  into  it  only  a  few  days 
before.  It  was  a  morning  in  May,  and  the 
windows  of  the  house  stood  wide  open  ;  lace 
curtains  floated  from  them,  and  beyond,  on  the 
gleaming  white  walls,  pictures  rare  and  beauti- 
ful might  be  seen,  such  as  usually  adorn  the 
homes  of  the  rich.  In  the  broad  window- 
seat  a  little  boy  was  sitting;  a  pale,  thin 
little  fellow  with  bright  golden  curls  that  lay 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  made  a  sort  of  halo 
about  his  pretty  face.  He  was  not  a  baby 
quite,  though  a  nurse  stood  beside  him,  and 
held  the  slight  figure  safe  with  her  strong 
right  arm.  But  he  was  very,  very  sick ;  the 
three  years  of  his  little  life  had  been  years 


6  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

of  such  suffering  that  his  growth  had  been 
quite  dwarfed ;  so  that  he  looked  almost 
a  baby  indeed,  and  could  scarcely  talk  at 
all. 

When  the  bright  eyes  beheld  the  yellow  ball 
in  the  good  farrier's  arms  he  lifted  his  poor 
little  hands  and  called  out,  gaily  :  "  Baydaw ; 
baydaw ; "  and  his  little  mother,  who  under- 
stood every  blessed  word  the  blessed  baby 
said,  declared  at  once  that  he  had  said, 
"baby's  dog."  Which  was  no  doubt  quite 
true. 

When  the  farrier  passed  on  the  baby  still 
called  for  the  dog,  pointing  his  little  finger 
after  the  retreating  figure,  and  crying,  "  Bay- 
daw,  baydaw,"  with  the  big  tears  trembling 
upon  his  cheeks. 

"  Go  and  call  the  man  back,"  the  mother  said 
to  the  nurse-maid ;  and  in  a  moment  more  the 
big  farrier,  who,  if  he  didn't  love  dogs,  cer- 
tainly did  love  children,  was  standing  just  out- 
side the  window  cramming  the  baby  arms  with 
the  yellow  ball  that  had  been  destined  for 
the  mill-pond.  The  boy  clapped  his  hands 
and  laughed,  and  called  "Baydaw,  baydaw," 
stroking  the  while  the  soft  fur  as  only  dog 


THE    DOG.  7 

lovers  can.  The  mother's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  : 

"It  is  the  first  thing  he  has  noticed  for 
almost  a  year,"  she  said ;  and  then  turning  to 
the  farrier : 

"  Would  you  sell  it  ?  He  has  been  very, 
very  sick  for  so  long,  and  the  puppy  pleases 
him." 

The  big,  soft-hearted  farrier  drew  his  hand 
across  his  eyes : 

"  Lord  love  you,  ma'm,  and  he's  more  than 
welcome  to  it,"  said  he.  "I  was  only  just 
going  to  drown  it.  And  I  say,  ma'm,"  the 
good  farrier  made  bold  to  add,  "  what  the  little 
one  needs  is  the  sunshine  and  the  air.  Maybe 
you'll  let  the  girl  fetch  him  to  see  me  at  the 
shop  sometimes  ?  Sure  now,  and  he's  a  pretty 
baby  ;  a  mighty  pretty  baby  is  he." 

And  that  was  how  the  farrier  and  the  boy 
became  acquainted  ;  and  that  was  how  the  boy 
saved  the  dog's  life.  Afterward,  the  dog  showed 
his  appreciation  of  the  favor  by  saving  the 
boy's  life  once  when  he  fell  into  the  mill-pond, 
the  same  mill-pond  to  which  the  cur  had  been 
doomed.  But  that  isn't  in  the  story,  so  we'll 
let  it  pass. 


8  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

The  two  were  great  friends  from  the  very 
first.  The  boy,  romping  about  the  yard  with 
his  new  friend,  began  to  "mend,"  the  farrier 
called  it  at  once.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
nurse  began  to  carry  him  down  to  the  smithy 
to  see  the  farrier  :  at  first,  he  only  stayed  a 
little  while,  but  soon  the  nurse  would  leave 
him,  and  return  for  him  just  in  time  for  dinner 
at  the  big  brick  house.  Sometimes  the  little 
pale  face  bore  the  marks  of  the  farrier's 
hand,  which  had  lingered  caressingly  upon  the 
pretty  temples.  Sometimes  the  dainty  white 
kilts  would  be  decorated  with  the  forge  soot, 
but  nobody  complained  of  such  small  things. 
The  boy  was  happy ;  the  big  smith  loved 
him,  and  the  soot  was  only  a  mark  of  af- 
fection. 

As  the  boy  grew  older  (did  I  say  he  was 
always  followed  by  the  dog  ?  Well,  he  was, 
always)  and  began  to  grow  strong,  and  to  con- 
verse with  his  big  friend,  the  smith  hunted  up 
an  old  anvil,  and  had  it  nicely  cleaned,  and 
brought  into  the  shop ;  he  placed  it  near  the 
forge,  and,  when  the  boy  and  dog  came  down  for 
their  morning  call,  he  would  dust  off  the  anvil 
with  a  clean  apron,  and  say  to  his  visitor : 


THE   DOG.  9 

"  There's  your  seat,  sir,  all  waiting." 

And  the  boy  would  smile  and  drop  down 
upon  the  smooth  anvfl,  and  then  call  out  to  the 
dog: 

"Lie  down,  Baydaw:  I  think  the  smith  is 
going  to  tell  us  a  story." 

You  see  the  dog  kept  the  name  the  boy  had 
given  him  the  day  he  was  born,  "Baydaw/" 
which,  the  boy's  mother  said,  meant  "baby's 
dog." 


II. 

THE    BOY. 

IT  was  wonderful,  the  farrier  declared,  the 
way  in  which  the  boy  began  to  mend  after 
the  dog  began  to  keep  him  company.  In  a 
very  little  while  the  two  might  be  seen,  the  boy 
and  the  dog,  out  on  the  lawn,  under  the  big 
trees,  strolling  side  by  side,  or  chasing  a  ball 
over  the  grass,  or  rolled  up  together,  fast  asleep, 
under  a  great,  old  white  oak-tree.  Then  they 
began  to  pay  visits  to  the  shop  alone,  with 
the  nurse-maid  watching  at  the  gate,  until  the 
sooty  old  shop  had  received  them  into  its  big, 
black  door.  They  came  together,  alone,  the 
day  the  boy  put  on  his  first  pantaloons.  And 
such  a  day  as^  it  was  :  why,  the  dog  was  every 
whit  as  proud  as  the  boy ;  indeed  he  walked 
down  the  village  street  at  his  young  master's 
side,  with  his  crinkled  tail  hoisted  over  his  back, 
and  his  head  carried  in  a  way  that  said :  "  Do 


THE   BOY.  II 

look  at  us,  everybody  !  We  have  on  breeches ; 
we  are  quite  men  to-day."  And  everybody  did 
look  ;  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Everybody  ran 
to  their  doors,  as  though  a  circus  might  have 
been  passing;  and  everybody  had  something 
pleasant  to  say ;  a  smile,  and,  "  Lord  love  the 
little  one  ; "  for  the  village  folk  worked  in  the 
mill  for  the  most  part,  and  were  very  fond  of 
the  president's  only  son.  But  the  greatest 
commotion  was  when  the  two  friends  walked 
into  the  blacksmith's  shop. 

The  smith  was  just  in  the  act  of  tempering 
a  bit  of  iron,  when  the  tittle  master  called  out, 
gaily,  from  the  doorway : 

"  Hello,  Mr.  Farrier !     HeDo,  sir !  " 

Then  the  farrier  turned,  and  saw  the  boy,  the 
dog,  and  the  first  breeches,  framed  in  by  the  big 
door,  waiting  to  be  recognized.  He  dropped  the 
hammer  upon  the  floor  of  the  smithy  and  stared ; 
for  the  life  of  him  he  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing appropriate  to  say  upon  such  a  very 
smart  occasion,  until,  suddenly,  he  remembered 
what  day  it  was ;  and  then,  remembering  that, 
and  looking  straight  at  the  first  breeches,  he 
said: 

"  Well !  if  this  ain't  the  glorious  fourth ! " 


12  THE    FARRIERS    DOG. 

The  boy  laughed  softly ;  he  was  very  much 
pleased  at  the  farrier's  surprise,  and  at  the  way 
he  had  expressed  it.  He  sauntered  into  the 
shop,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  bright  old  anvil 
prepared  for  him,  and  began  to  enjoy  his  visit, 
the  dog  lying  at  his  feet.  At  first  the  silence 
was  a  trifle  embarrassing :  the  smith  continued 
to  stare,  and  the  boy  smoothed  the  dog's  back 
with  his  small  white  hand. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  them,  Mr.  Blacksmith," 
said  the  boy  after  a  while,  with  a  conscious 
glance  at  the  ridiculous  little  bit  of  white  linen 
ending  just  above  his  tiny  knee,  and  daring  to 
call  itself  a  pair  of  breeches. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  farrier,  "  they  look 
uncommon  well,  uncommon  well." 

The  boy  blushed  like  a  girl,  and  continued  to 
stroke  the  dog's  back;  he  had  never  been  so 
embarrassed  in  all  his  little  life,  although  he 
felt  so  proud  ;  so  very,  very  proud,  indeed.  As, 
indeed,  why  shouldn't  he  ?  To  be  sure,  he 
would  never  wear  his  first  pantaloons  for  the 
first  time,  again  ;  not  in  all  his  life,  however 
long  it  might  be.  Still,  it  was  embarrassing ; 
he  stroked  the  dog's  back  and  smiled.  Sud- 
denly his  face  lighted : 


THE    BOY.  13 

"This  is  a  nice  dog  you  have  given  me," 
said  he.  "  A  very  nice  dog,  sir." 

"Glad  you  like  him,  sir,"  said  the  smith. 
"  He  does  look  uncommon  well  now,  walking 
along  in  the  company  of  them  new  breeches." 

"  And  he  has  a  nice  tail,"  said  the  boy  ;  who 
was  rather  more  anxious  to  talk  dog  than  he 
was  to  talk  breeches.  "  His  tail  has  a  nice 
crinkle  to  it.  I  a/zva_ys  liked  his  tail,  farrier." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  farrier,  "  I  believe  you  did." 

Then  there  was  another  long  silence;  in 
which  the  smith  looked  at  the  boy  (a  twinkle  in 
his  eye),  and  the  boy  looked  at  his  first  breeches 
(a  smile  in  his  eye),  and  the  dog  looked  at  them 
both,  as  though  he  considered  they  were  both 
rather  easily  embarrassed  about  so  very  small 
a  matter. 

"  I  always  liked  his  tail,"  the  boy  repeated  ; 
and  then  there  was  more  silence.  Suddenly 
the  smith  tossed  his  hammer  aside,  and  brushed 
away  the  iron  that  had  been  left  to  cool  upon 
the  anvil : 

"  I  say  now,"  said  he.  "  You  ought  to  have 
a  holiday  to-day ;  you  surely  ought ;  wearing 
your  first  breeches,  and  all  that.  There's  a 
circus  coming  to  town  to-day,  and  I  move  that 


14  THE    FARRIERS    DOG. 

we  shut  up  the  shop  and  take  those  new 
breeches  to  see  the  show." 

The  boy  bounded  to  his  feet : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Farrier,"  said  he,  "do  you  think 
we  might  go  ?  And  could  Baydaw  go  along, 
too  ?  He  never  saw  a  circus,  and  I  am  sure  he 
would  like  it." 

"Why,"  said  the  smith,  "he  might,  and  wel- 
come, but  the  rogues  would  steal  him,  like  as 
not." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  boy,  "  then  we  can't  go.  I'm 
so  sorry.  I  would  like  to  see  a  circus." 

"  We  might  lock  him  up  here  in  the  shop 
till  we  got  back,"  said  the  smith  ;  but  the  boy 
shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  he,  "that  we  should 
like  to  be  parted  to-day" 

"Then,"  said  the  smith,  "we'll  fetch  him 
along,  and  take  the  risk.  But  you  must  be 
sure  to  keep  an  eye  upon  him  ;  these  circus 
fellows  are  mighty  bad  about  dogs,  I  have 
always  heard." 

So  with  this  understanding  they  went  off  for 
a  holiday,  the  first  of  many  they  took  together. 
It  was  the  only  way,  the  good  farrier  declared, 
in  which  he  could  do  proper  respect  to  the  first 


THE    BOY.  15 

breeches.  They  saw  the  lions  and  the  royal 
Bengal  tiger,  the  camels,  and  the  cinnamon  bear 
that  kept  time  to  the  squeaky  notes  of  a  wheezy 
flute.  Then  they  saw  a  man  climb  a  trapeze,  a 
thing  any  college  boy  can  do  better  these  days 


of  athletics  ;  and  then  they  went  outside  and 
had  a  watery  lemonade,  which  the  smith  de- 
clared was  very  like  a  Sunday  school  picnic, 
"  because  they  had  forgotten  to  put  any  lemon 
in  the  lemonade."  And  at  every  stop  they 


1 6  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

made,  and  every  treat  he  offered,    the  farrier 
would  ask  : 

"  Will  the  new  breeches  have  some  of  this  ?  " 
Or,  "Will  the  new  breeches  look  at  this?" 
"Would  the  breeches  like  to  see  the  bearded 
woman  ?  "  "  Will  the  breeches  take  a  peep  at 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  ?  "  "  Would  the  breeches 
like  to  see  the  Sleeping  Beauty?"  Thus  im- 
pressing upon  the  boy's  mind  that  the  great 
day  was  in  honor  of  the  first  pantaloons,  and 
that  all  courtesies  extended  were  extended  to 
the  breeches.  In  short,  it  was  a  kind  of  first 
breeches  celebration,  as  though  any  boy  was 
likely  to  forget  the  day  he  put  on  his  first 
breeches. 


III. 

THE  THIEF'S  DOG. 

OXE  morning  the  boy  sat  on  the  anvil  draw- 
ing the  dog's  bushy  tail  between  his  palms. 

"  He  has  a  nice  tail,"  said  he.  "  I  always 
liked  his  tail ;  it  has  a  nice  crinkle  to  it." 

The  smith  was  busy  at  the  forge  and  did  not 
reply  at  the  moment.  Suddenly  the  boy  called 
out  in  his  clear  little  treble : 

"  Farrier,"  said  he,  "  can  you  tell  me  why  it 
is  a  boy  always  likes  a  dog  ? " 

The  farrier  let  go  the  bellows  pump,  and 
rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  long,  smutty  fore- 
finger : 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  to  gain  time,  "  is  that  a 
riddle,  or  is  it  plain  facts  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  "  that  isn't  a  riddle ;  it  is 
just  a  plain  question." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  smith,  "it's  because 

«7 


1 8  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

he  can  beat  the  dog  when  he  feels  like  it,  I'm 
thinking." 

The  boy  bounded  to  his  feet  and  looked  the 
farrier  squarely  in  the  eye.  "That  isn't  it  at 
all,"  said  he.  "  You've  guessed  worse  than  I 
ever  thought  you  would.  Why,  sir,  a  boy  loves 
a  dog  because  a  dog  always  loves  a  boy ;  if  he 
is  half  nice  to  him.  I  reckon  it's  easy  to  get  a 
dog  to  love  you.  Why,  I  have  heard  of  dogs 
that  loved  beggars,  and  bootblacks,  and  —  even 
—  thieves." 

"Sure,"  said  the  farrier,  "and  it's  right  you 
are.  Now,  once. — "  he  seized  the  bellows  pump 
again,  and  began  pumping  with  all  his  might ; 
he  pumped  away  until  the  coals  on  the  forge 
were  a  good  red  glow  before  he  opened  his  lips 
for  another  word.  The  boy  dropped  back  on 
his  old  anvil  and  threw  his  arms  about  the  dog's 
neck  with  a  delighted  little  chuckle. 

"  Lie  down,  Baydaw,"  said  he.  "  I  think  the 
farrier  is  going  to  tell  us  a  story." 

The  farrier  thrust  a  bar  of  iron  into  the  heart 
of  the  red  coals,  and  while  waiting  for  it  to  heat, 
for  the  farrier  never  wasted  time,  not  even  in 
telling  stories,  said  : 

"  Now   once,    over   in    my   town    in    No'th 


THE   THIEF  S    DOG.  IQ 

Kelliny,  there  was  a  man,  said  to  be  the  mean- 
est man  ever  raised.  Wouldn't  anybody  have 
anything  to  do  with  him.  Nobody  knew  where 
he  come  from  ;  jest  kind  o*  dropped  down  there, 
as  it  were,  and  put  up.  Lived  in  a  little  house 


at  one  end  of  the  town.  And  they  used  to  tell 
on  him  that  he  was  that  mean  the  varmints  in 
that  end  o'  town,  sech  as  rats  and  mice,  and 
toad  frogs,  all  got  up  and  moved  out  when  he 
opened  up  there.  They  told  awful  tales  about 


2O  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

him  :  wouldn't  a  boy  in  town  pass  that  house 
after  dark  if  he  could  help  it ;  they  didn't  like 
to  pass  in  the  daytime ;  and  when  they  jest 
had  to  pass  it,  they  went  by  in  a  pretty  peart 
trot,  /can  tell  you." 

"  They  ran  ?  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  they  ran  by  the  house,  in  the  broad  open 
daylight  ?" 

The  smith  drew  the  red-hot  bar  from  the 
coals,  and,  holding  it  across  the  anvil,  began  to 
tap  it  with  his  iron  hammer  : 

Clink-clink-clinkety-clink  ! 

It  was  a  great  annoyance  to  the  boy  to  have 
the  hammer  continually  interrupting  conversa- 
tion in  this  way,  but  the  hammer  had  work  to 
do :  the  smith  might  idle  away  his  time  with  a 
boy  and  a  dog,  but  as  for  the  iron  hammer  — 

Clink-clink-clinkety-clink ! 

At  last  the  bar  was  in  the  coal  bed  again  ;  the 
smith  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  brow,  and  began 
at  precisely  the  point  at  which  he  had  left  off 
his  story.  That  was  one  good  thing  about  the 
smith,  the  boy  always  said  :  "  he  never  forget 
where  he  left  off'' 

"They  ran,"  said  he,  "as  fast  as  their  legs 
could  carry  of  them." 


THE    THIEF  S    DOG.  21 

"Did — did  you  run,  farrier?"  said  the  boy, 
anxiously  watching  the  iron  bar  that  would  soon 
be  getting  hot  again.  The  farrier  scratched  his 
head :  he  wished  this  one  boy  to  think  he  was 
not  a  coward ;  had  never  been  a  coward ;  yet 
was  he  a  truthful  old  farrier. 

"Well,  now,"  said  he,  "this  here  story  is 
about  the  thief :  the  thief  and  the  other  fellows ; 
it  isn't  my  story  ;  if  it  was  my  story  —  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  boy.     And  then  — 

Clink-clink-cl  inkety-clink. 

The  boy  almost  hated  that  industrious  old 
hammer. 

Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. 

"  I'd  tell  it  differ1  nt ;  "  said  the  smith,  begin- 
ning again  where  he  left  off.  "  There  was  no- 
body in  the  town  could  abide  that  man.  He 
was  poor  as  a  church  mouse ;  folks  used  to 
wonder  why  he  didn't  starve  to  death.  He 
surely  didn't  have  any  way  of  getting  an  hon- 
est living,  they  said.  You  see  that  is  how  bad 
stories  get  a-going.  If  a  man  or  a  woman  won't 
work,  people  begin  to  wonder  how  they  live. 
Then  they  begin  to  talk,  then  to  keep  an  eye 
upon  them,  and  first  thing  you  know  somebody 
has  lost  a  character.  So  they  began  to  watch 


22  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

this  fellow  I'm  telling  you  about,  and  after 
'while  they  began  to  say  he  stole.  Then  they 
shunned  him  more  than  ever.  And  everything 
that  happened  in  that  town  they  were  pretty 
apt  to  think  he  done  it.  That's  another  thing 
you  got  to  notice  as  you  go  along.  When  a 
fellow  gets  a  bad  name,  it  accumulates  a  good 
deal  of  dirt  as  it  goes  along." 

"  It  —  what  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

"Why,  it's  this  way.  Give  a  man  a  bad 
name  and  he'll  be  accused  of  everything  bad 
comes  his  way  ;  that's  it.  So  they  laid  lots  o' 
things  to  the  charge  of  this  fellow  in  my  town  ; 
and  they  got  so  they  wouldn't  so  much  as  no- 
tice him,  let  alone  speak  to  him.  And  there 
was  some  talk  of  driving  him  out  of  the  town. 
And  one  day  — 

Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. 

Oh,  that  hammer  !  The  boy  wished  the  far- 
rier would  toss  it  out  of  the  door  with  all  his 
might ;  he  knew  it  must  fall  squarely  into  the 
slack  tub  at  the  door,  if  the  smith  should 
fling  it  away.  Then  he  laughed  softly  at  the 
thought  of  the  big  hammer  flying  out  the  shop 
door,  and  of  the  good  smith  with  nothing  to 
-do  but  to  sit  with  his  big  hands  folded  all  day. 


THE    THIEF  S    DOG.  23 

Then  the  little  face  grew  grave  again.  There  was 
something  awesome  in  the  thought  of  the  strong 
hands  folded  idly  all  day.  It  must  be  a  very 
terrible  thing,  too,  that  would  make  the  smith 
throw  away  his  hammer.  He  remembered  once 
seeing  a  man  buried.  It  was  his  uncle,  and  he 
was  buried  by  some  men  who  wore  white  aprons 
and  gloves.  His  father  had  told  him  that  they 
were  "  free  masons,"  a  great  and  good  order  of 
men  to  which  his  uncle  had  belonged.  And  on 
the  lid  of  his  uncle's  coffin  were  laid  an  apron 
and  a  pair  of  gloves  too,  like  those  the  men 
wore.  When  he  asked  his  father  about  it  he 
had  said,  "  He  will  not  need  them  any  more." 
So,  it  seemed  to  him,  it  might  be  when  his 
good  friend,  the  smith,  should  throw  away  his 
hammer. 

CUnk-clink-cUnkety-clink. 

"  A  dog  took  up  with  him."  The  bar  was 
finished  now,  and  the  farrier  finished  the  story 
without  further  interruption  from  the  hammer. 
"  One  day  a  dog  took  up  with  him.  It  was  an 
ugly  kind  of  a  brute,  and  he  must  have  been 
pretty  well  starved  all  along;  but  somehow  it 
stuck  to  that  fellow  like  as  they'd  been  kind  of 
kin.  Better,  for  a  fellow's  kin  ain't  always  the 


24  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

ones  as  sticks  when  a  fellow's  needy.  But  the 
dog  stuck  ;  'stuck  and  starved,'  the  folks  used 
to  say.  Why,  he'd  snarl  at  a  boy  if  he  ran  past 
the  house,  and  show  his  teeth  if  a  body  dared 
to  look  over  his  shoulder  doubtful  like  at  the 
dog's  master.  And  once  the  fellow  got  sick 
and  nobody'd  go  nigh  him  but  that  dog.  And 
the  critter  actually  stole  for  him.  He  stole  the 
victuals  off  the  stove  where  the  women-folks 
was  cooking,  and  sneaked  the  bread  out  of  the 
baker's  window.  And  once,  when  he  couldn't 
find  anything  better,  he  stole  a  live  hen  and  car- 
ried it  home  in  his  mouth. 

"  They  said  the  fellow  was  good  to  the  dog, 
in  his  way,  though  he  must  have  had  a  hard  lot, 
even  if  he  got  no  cuffing.  The  fellow  got  well 
at  last,  thanks  to  the  dog's  keeping,  and  one 
night  he  broke  into  a  house,  and  he  got  shot 
while  trying  to  get  out  after  the  folks  waked 
and  gave  the  alarm.  And  the  town  buried  of 
him,  and  was  saying  '  good  riddance,'  with  just 
one  mourner  to  follow  the  old  sexton,  who 
crammed  the  cheap  pine  coffin  into  the  ground, 
and  threw  the  dirt  over  it.  That  mourner  was 
the  dog.  The  last  that  town  ever  saw  of  him 
was  the  day  he  followed  the  corporation's  dead- 


THE  THIEF'S  DOG.  25 

wagon  out  to  the  pauper  graveyard.  That  is  to 
say,  it  was  the  last  they  ever  saw  of  him  in  that 
town.  They  saw  him  at  the  graveyard,  months 
afterwards ;  just  a  little  heap  of  white  bones 
lying  across  the  old  rogue's  grave.  Yes,  sir; 
it's  curious  how  a  dog  will  take  to  folks  —  " 

Clink  —  the  smith  had  taken  up  his  hammer 
and  was  trying  it  lightly,  thoughtlessly,  upon 
the  cold  anvil.  This  set  the  boy  to  thinking, 
and  to  asking  questions. 

"  Farrier,"  said  he,  "  do  you  think  anything 
could  ever  happen  that  would  make  you  throw 
your  hammer  away  ?  I've  been  thinking  a  good 
deal  about  that  while  I  was  waiting  between 
times  for  the  story  you  have  been  telling  me. 
It  was  a  nice  story,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you.  I  always  like  to  hear  stories  about  dogs. 
And  while  I  was  waiting  for  this  one,  I  got  to 
wondering  if  anything  could  make  you  throw 
your  hammer  out  the  door.  It  would  be  sure 
to  fall  in  the  slack  tub,  I  think." 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  good  smith,  "it 
would  need  to  be  something  very  dreadful,  I'm 
thinking,"  — he  rubbed  the  hammer's  cold  nose 
with  his  palm,  in  a  half  caressing  way,  for  a 
good  workman  is  always  more  or  less  fond  of  his 


26  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

faithful  tools,  —  "  something  very,  very  dreadful, 
sir." 

Yet,  in  less  than  six  months  — 

Clink-clink-clinkety-clink  —  the  smith  was  at 
work  again. 


IV. 

THE    DOG'S    MESSAGE. 

ONE  morning  the  boy  failed  to  come  to  the 
shop,  although  the  sun  shone  and  the  south 
wind  blew  warm  across  the  southern  hills. 
From  time  to  time  the  farrier  glanced  at  the 
empty  anvil  where  his  friend  was  accustomed  to 
sit,  with  Baydaw  at  his  feet,  and  wondered  that 
the  place  should  seem  so  lonely.  More  than 
once  he  went  to  the  door,  and  stood  under  the 
shed  outside,  his  smutty  hand  before  his  eyes, 
watching  the  street  for  his  little  friend  and  the 
yellow  dog.  He  even  looked  at  the  low  iron 
gate  up  the  street  to  see  if  the  nurse-maid's  cap 
might  be  visible  while  she  stood  watching  the 
young  master.  But,  no ;  there  was  no  sign  of 
either  friend  or  dog;  and  at  noon  the  smith 
shut  the  shop  door  and  went  back  to  doctor  a 
sick  horse,  and  did  not  return  all  the  day. 

The  next   morning  the  boy  again   failed  to 


28  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

make  his  appearance.  The  smith  glanced  at 
the  empty  anvil  time  and  again.  More  than 
once  he  turned  to  speak  to  the  boy  who 
"ought,"  he  declared,  "to  be  there."  Finally 
he  crossed  the  shop,  and  jerking  an  old,  cast- 
off  apron  from  a  nail  in  the  wall,  he  threw  it 
over  the  empty  seat  and  went  back  to  look  after 
a  horseshoe  he  had  left  in  the  fire. 

But,  somehow,  to-day  the  hammer  didn't  ring 
to  suit  him.  He  tried  it  upon  the  glowing  shoe, 
then  he  tried  it  upon  the  anvil.  Then  suddenly 
he  lifted  it  above  his'  head,  and  tossed  it  from 
him  with  such  force  that  he  sent  it  flying 
through  the  door,  where  it  circled  three  times 
in  the  air,  and  fell  with  a  soft  little  sizzling 
squarely  into  the  slack  tub,  and  sank  out  of 
sight. 

But  the  farrier  did  not  notice.  He  did  not 
even  remember  that  he  had  told  the  little  boy 
that  it  must  be  a  very  dreadful  thing  that  would 
cause  him  to  throw  away  his  hammer.  He  was 
too  busy  taking  off,  or  trying  to  take  off,  his 
apron.  He  had  resolved  to  go  up  to  the  big 
house  of  the  president  and  ask  what  was  the 
matter. 

As  he  gave  the  apron-strings  a  jerk,  a  shadow 


THE    DOGS    MESSAGE.  2Q 

fell  across  the  doorway,  and  something  brushed 
the  good  smith's  legs.  When  he  looked  down 
and  saw  the  yellow  cur  Baydaw,  he  was  so  upset 
that  he  jerked  the  apron-strings  into  such  a 
hopelessly  hard  knot  that  he  had  to  cut  them 
apart  by  and  by. 

Baydaw  rubbed  his  head  against  the  smith's 
legs  and  whined.  The  smith  stooped,  and  took 
from  the  dog's  mouth  the  bit  of  white  paper 
which  the  boy's  mother  had  folded  into  a  note 
and  placed  there.  The  farrier  wasn't  a  scholar, 
but  he  made  out  that  his  little  friend  was  very 
sick,  and  had  sent  for  him  to  come  up  to  the 
house.  He  didn't  stop  to  remove  his  apron,  or 
to  get  his  hat  from  the  nail,  or  to  fasten  the 
shop  door.  Indeed,  there  were  those  who  said 
he  even  carried  his  hammer  ;  but  how  could  he, 
with  the  hammer  at  the  bottom  of  the  slack 
tub  ?  He  went,  however,  at  once,  his  big  form 
followed  up  the  hill  by  the  dog  who  had  been 
sent  to  fetch  him. 

That  noon,  when  the  smith  returned  to  the 
shop,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  lift  the  empty 
anvil  that  had  been  the  boy's  seat,  and  to  heave 
it  out  of  the  back  door  into  a  hole  there,  and 
cover  it  over  with  leaves  and  earth,  so  that  he 


3O  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

couldn't  see  it  again.  Though  how  could  he 
see  anything,  gruff  old  soft-heart  that  he  was, 
with  the  big  tears  blinding  his  eyes. 

The  little  boy  had  been  very,  very  sick.  His 
father  had  sat  by  his  bed  all  the  long  night, 
while  his  mother  had  knelt  at  the  other  side 
praying.  He  had  talked  a  good  deal  to  them  : 
he  was  a  very  sensible  little  fellow,  and  very 
loving  and  full  of  faith  in  his  parents.  At 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  doctor  told 
them  he  was  to  have  anything  that  he  called 
for. 

"  Nothing  can  hurt  him  now,"  the  doctor  had 
said.  And,  hearing  this,  the  boy  had  called  out 
in  his  pretty,  clear  voice  : 

"  I  should  like  to  see  my  old  friend  the  far- 
rier, if  you  please,  papa." 

And  so  the  farrier  was  sent  for  at  once  ;  at 
the  boy's  request  they  sent  the  dog  to  fetch 
him,  with  the  note  the  mother  had  written. 

When  the  big,  burly  figure  of  the  smith 
appeared  in  the  door,  the  boy  held  out  his 
little  white  hand  and  called  to  his  friend  : 

"  I've  sent  for  you  to  give  you  back  your 
dog,  farrier,"  said  he;  and  the  cur,  as  though 
he  understood,  crept  close  to  the  bed's  side,  in 


THE    DOGS    MESSAGE.  3! 

easy  reach  of  the  hand  extended  to  stroke  the 
soft,  silky  fur. 

"  He  is  a  nice  dog,  and  I  like  him  very  much, 
sir,  and  I've  sent  for  you  to  give  him  back  to 
you." 

"  There,  there  now,"  said  the  farrier,  "  what- 
ever am  I  to  do  with  him,  without  you  to  keep 
him  out  of  the  mill-pond  ?  " 

The  boy  smiled ;  he  knew  well  that  his  dog 
would  never  be  in  danger  of  the  mill-pond 
again. 

"He  is  a  nice  dog,  and  he  has  a  beautiful 
tail.  I  always  liked  his  tail,  farrier." 

"Sure,  sir,  I  believe  you  always  did,"  said 
the  farrier,  "and  I  hope,  sir,  as  you  always 
may." 

The  boy  seemed  not  to  be  listening  for  a 
moment,  though  the  small  hand  continued  to 
stroke  the  cur's  head : 

"  Baydaw  ? "  The  dog  started  up,  and  licked 
the  tiny  fingers. 

"  His  tail  has  a  beautiful  crinkle,"  —  the  voice 
was  low,  and  the  words  softly  spoken;  for 
the  boy's  strength  was  almost  spent.  The 
next  moment  he  rallied,  and  asked  them  please 
to  send  for  his  old  friend  the  farrier;  he  was 


32  THE    FARRIERS    DOG. 

quite  sure  the  dog  could  bring  him.  The  father 
moved  aside,  and  motioned  the  smith  to  stand 
nearer  the  bed,  and  speak  to  the  child.  But 
the  boy  saw  him,  and  was  the  first  to  speak : 

"  Why,  farrier,"  said  he,  "  I  thought  you 
were  crying.  It  would  be  odd  to  see  a  black- 
smith cry,  I  think." 

"  Very  odd,  sir,"  said  the  smith ;  "  very  odd, 
indeed.  I  misdoubts  they  don't  cry  very  often, 
sir." 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  "  but  mothers  do.  Mine 
cried  all  night.  You  won't  forget  to  take  the 
dog  along  with  you,  farrier? " 

"  Sure,  sir,  I'll  keep  him  all  right  till  you 
come  after  him,"  said  the  smith. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  going  away,"  cried  the  boy. 
"I  shall  not  come  to  the  shop  again,  because 
I  am  going  very  far  away.  But  mother  says  I 
needn't  be  afraid  at  all,  and  I  am  not ;  because 
mother  wouldn't  tell  me  if  it  was  not  all  right. 
But  I  cannot  take  my  dog,  so  I  give  him  back 
to  you.  Father,  dear,  give  me  your  hand  on 
this  side,  please.  And,  come  closer,  farrier ; 
I  can't  seem  to  see  you.  You'll  keep  the  dog 
for  old  times  ?  I  can't  come  to  your  shop  again, 
but  I'll  not  forget  you,  farrier." 


THE    DOGS    MESSAGE.  33 

The  big  farrier  did  not  reply :  he  could  not 
have  said  a  word  though  life  had  hung  upon  his 
speaking.  He  could  only  choke  back  the  great 
sob  that  rose  in  his  throat,  and  put  out  his  big, 
grimy  hand  to  feel  for  the  dog's  head.  His 
great  fingers  touched  the  tiny  ones  of  the  little 
boy,  who  had  grown  into  his  big  man's  heart  in 
such  a  very  little  while.  The  little  boy  who  had 
taught  him  that  even  a  dog  may  be  a  thing  of 
affectionate  care.  The  small  fingers  scarcely 
moved,  though  the  lips  did,  ever  so  faintly : 

"  He  has  a  nice  tail.  I  always  liked  his  tail 
You  will  not  forget,  farrier?" 

The  farrier  leaned  over  the  bed  to  reply,  but 
drew  back,  with  a  low  cry  of  pain,  as  though 
something  had  hurt  him.  The  little  boy  had 
gone  upon  that  long  journey  of  which  he  had 
said  he  was  "not  afraid," 


V. 

A    VAGABOND. 

IT  was  a  day  in  August.  A  hot,  sultry  day, 
when  work  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  and  even 
play  was  a  burden.  A  group  of  idle  boys  sat 
upon  the  curbstone  of  a  pavement  before  the 
door  of  the  very  last  house  of  a  street  that  led 
into  the  heart  of  the  city.  The  boys  were  not 
plotting  any  great  mischief ;  they  were  only 
idle,  loafing  about  the  street  in  mischief's  way. 
So,  when  mischief  came  in  sight,  they  were  not 
slow  to  grasp  it.  They  were  talking  of  the 
river  a  little  further  on,  and  of  the  swimming 
there,  and  calculating,  coolly,  the  ways  and 
means  of  getting  there  and  back  in  sufficient 
time  to  throw  suspicion  off  their  tracks,  when 
again  they  should  confront  their  mothers. 

There  are  some  circumstances  in  which  boys 
of  a  certain  class  are  ripe  for  any  mischief  they 
may  chance  upon.  The  present  was  one  of  that 

94 


A    VAGABOND.  35 

class  of  circumstances,  and  these  boys  were  of 
just  that  class.  While  they  sat  there  on  the  curb- 
stone, waiting,  planning,  a  dog  came  into  view. 
A  yellow,  wobegone,  weary  looking  dog,  covered 
with  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  road.  There  were 
blood-stains  upon  his  yellow  jacket,  and  poor 
dumb  wounds  that  told  without  words  the  cruel 


adventures  of  the  highway.  He  had  a  fright- 
ened, hang-dog  look  about  him,  too,  and  his  red 
tongue  protruded  from  between  his  foam-flecked 
jaws,  as  he  panted  for  breath.  Evidently,  in 
spite  of  his  sorrows,  the  dog  had  made  sport 
somewhere  for  some  cruel  Philistines  ;  for  his 
once  long,  bushy  tail  was  shaved,  leaving  it 
quite  clean  of  hair,  except  for  the  shaggy 
bunch  at  the  end.  His  body  had  been  treated 


36  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

in  the  same  way :  it  was  quite  smooth,  except 
for  the  big,  shaggy  mane  around  his  neck.  He 
was  a  most  comical  looking  dog,  indeed,  and  a 
still  more  comical  looking  lion.  There  was 
a  wild  something  in  the  furtive,  frightened 
glance  that  he  shot  here  and  there,  as  if  mind- 
ful of  the  chance  stone ;  or,  it  might  be,  the 
friendly  hand  extended. 

When  the  dog  first  came  into  view  one  of 
the  boys  upon  the  curbstone  bounded  to  his 
feet,  and  shouted  : 

"  A  lion  !  " 

Instantly  the  others  followed  his  lead  ;  there 
was  not  a  boy  among  them  but  recognised  the 
comical  idea  that  had  transformed  the  yellow 
cur  into  the  tawny  lion.  In  an  instant  they 
raised  a  cry,  and  the  dog  took  to  its  heels,  with 
every  boy  after  him.  As  they  ran,  each  boy 
seized  a  stone.  At  last  the  idle  ones  had 
found  something  with  which,  to  amuse  them- 
selves. They  ran  straight  for  the  city,  and, 
before  they  had  gone  half  a  block,  they  were 
joined  by  others,  who  grasped  their  stones  like- 
wise, and  raised  their  cry. 

People  ran  out  of  their  houses  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  and  a  woman,  seeing  the  hurry- 


A    VAGABOND.  37 

ing  crowd,  with  a  stray  dog  fleeing  from  its 
missiles,  rushed  through  her  gate,  and  dragged 
a  little  child  in  off  the  pavement.  As  she  did 
so,  she  unconsciously,  without  malice,  shouted : 
"Mad  dog!" 

That  was  quite  enough  ;  the  crowd  doubled 
in  two  minutes,  and  the  poor,  weary,  homeless 
cur  was  to  make  a  last  struggle  for  his  life. 

To  the  boys  who  had  started  the  chase  it  was 
such  fun  ;  such  fun  for  the  boys  ;  such  certain 
death  for  the  dog. 

At  one  end  of  a  particularly  crowded  business 
street,  a  bootblack  had  a  stand  It  wasn't  a 
particularly  imposing  stand ;  merely  a  chair 
which  could  be  folded  up  and  shoved  into  a 
niche  in  the  walls,  a  stool  for  customer's  feet 
to  rest  upon,  a  box,  and  some  brushes.  The 
chair  was  elevated  upon  a  small  platform,  that 
had  been  a  box ;  one  end  of  it  still  open.  Into 
this  the  bootblack  sometimes  thrust  the  imple- 
ments of  his  profession  when  it  rained,  or  when 
he  had  occasion  to  run  down  the  street  a 
moment.  A  lady  sat  in  the  bootblack's  chair ; 
she  had  stepped  into  a  puddle,  in  crossing 
the  street,  that  the  city  sprinkler  had  made. 
The  bootblack  wasn't  accustomed  to  blacking 


38  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

the  boots  of  women.  He  didn't  know  how  to 
manage  their  feet  exactly ;  and  this  was  such 
a  small  foot  that  it  was  quite  lost  in  the  palm 
of  his  big  hand.  She  wasn't  a  rich  woman,  evi- 
dently ;  just  a  thoroughly  neat  and  cleanly  one. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  the  plainest  gray  serge, 
and  her  gloves  had  been  freshly  darned.  She 
would,  probably,  walk  home,  to  some  distant 
part  of  the  suburbs,  to  save  the  car  fare  that 
would  go  towards  payment  for  the  bootblacking. 
Yet,  there  was  that  about  her  face,  the  look  of 
her  eyes,  and  the  shape  of  her  mouth,  that  cor- 
responded to  that  something  in  her  character 
which  could  not  tolerate  the  muddy  shoe,  and 
made  the  boy  recognize  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  gentlewoman,  notwithstanding  the  plain 
attire. 

He  took  the  small  foot  between  his  palms, 
and  began  to  brush.  While  at  his  task  he 
heard  shouts,  and,  glancing  up,  he  saw  the 
hurrying  crowd  of  boys,  and  the  flying  stones 
and  sticks.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  wonder  what 
them  boys  is  a-chasin'  of  ;  like  as  not  it's  a  cat ; 
or  else  a  boy  what's  littler  'n  they  be,  and  can't 
get  out  o'  the  way.  I  declare  for  it,  boys  is  so 
mean  ;  some  boys." 


A    VAGABOND.  39 

The  lady  said  nothing ;  she  was  watching  the 
bootblack,  whose  gaze  was  fixed  upon  that 
speck  of  flying  yellow  fur  hurrying  down  the 
street. 

"I  declare,"  he  shouted,  "if  it  ain't  a  dog 
they're  chasin'.  Nothin'  but  a  poor,  lame  cur. 
Boys  is  so  mean  ;  some  boys." 

The  dog  was  limping  now,  but  making  all 
possible  haste.  A  flying  stone  had  struck  one 
of  his  hind  legs.  The  lady  still  said  nothing ; 
she  was  watching  the  bootblack,  studying  his 
character  it  might  be.  The  crowd  came  nearer ; 
the  shouts  became  more  distinct ;  there  was  but 
one  cry : 

"Mad  dog!  hit  him!  kill  him!  Mad  dog" 

Suddenly  the  hunted,  doomed  thing  lifted  its 
weary,  dust-blinded  eyes  to  the  pavement,  and 
saw  the  boy  and  the  woman.  Instantly,  as  though 
heaven  itself  had  directed  its  steps,  the  cur  es- 
caped behind  the  legs  of  the  men  who  had  come 
out  to  see  what  was  the  occasion  of  the  uproar, 
and  darted  into  the  open  end  of  the  box  upon 
which  rested  the  bootblack's  chair.  The  boy 
gasped,  and  turned  to  the  lady ;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  his ;  clearly,  each  was  study- 
ing the  other.  The  study  lasted  but  an  in- 


4O  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

stant,  and  then  the  lady  dropped  the  skirt  of 
her  gray  serge  dress  over  the  opening  into 
which  the  dog  had  disappeared.  The  boy 
gasped  again,  and  was  about  to  speak;  but 
quickly  the  small,  freshly  darned  glove  touched 
his  arm  : 

"Do  you  just  be  quiet,"  said  the  strange 
customer.  "And  now  black  that  other  boot, 
and  be  quick  !  " 

The  boy  gave  a  low  whistle  ;  he  recognized 
that  they  were  fellow  conspirators  for  the  life 
of  the  dog.  The  next  moment  he  fell  to  work 
blacking  away  for  dear  life,  the  very  busiest 
bootblack  that  ever  plied  a  brush.  And  the 
crowd,  jeering,  shouting,  brandishing  their  sticks 
and  gathering  their  stones,  passed  on.  They 
had  lost  track  of  the  dog.  Neither  had  they 
taken  special  notice  of  the  industrious  boy 
blacking  the  boots  of  the  Grossest  lady  ever 
seen,  if  looks  went  for  anything.  They  wouldn't 
have  dared  speak  to  her,  still  less  have  dared 
ask  her  to  let  them  look  under  her  skirts  for  a 
runaway  mad  dog,  a  vagabond  cur.  They  passed 
on,  suspecting  nothing,  and  for  the  time  the  dog 
was  safe.  When  they  were  gone  the  lady  said, 
"  That  will  do  now,"  in  her  own  pleasant  voice, 


A   VAGABOND. 


and  gave  the  boy  a  coin.  The  bootblack  shook 
his  head  ;  somehow  he  still  felt  that  they  were 
fellow  plotters ;  he  could  not  think  of  charging 
her  anything.  Besides,  he  had  seen  the  gloves 
with  their  fresh  patches. 


-"The  boots   was   so   little,  ma'm,"  he  said, 
"they  warn't  worth  nothin*  nohows." 

The  lady  smiled;  her  eyes  were  very  soft 
and  tender  now,  and  there  was  an  unmistakable 
mist  in  their  blue  depths.  She  knew  this  boy 


42  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

was  poor,  very,  very  poor ;  and  then  there  was 
the  cur  under  the  box. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  him  ? "  she  asked, 
making  a  little  gesture  downward. 

The  boy  shook  his  head  again. 

"  I  dunno  ;  but  I'll  keep  them  there  boys 
off' n  him,  sure." 

The  mist  was  gathering  in  the  lady's  blue 
eyes  ;  clearly  she  must  get  away. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  still  holding  out  the  coin, 
"  when  that  crowd  of  young  ruffians  is  safely  out 
of  sight,  buy  the  dog  a  bone  with  that.  You 
may  tell  him  it  is  his  dinner,  with  my  compli- 
ments." 

And  before  the  boy  could  speak  she  was 
gone,  .and  the  bit  of  silver  was  lying  upon  the 
seat  of  the  chair  which  she  had  lately  occupied. 
The  bootblack  looked  at  it  quizzically. 

"  Women  is  so  good,"  he  declared,  as  he 
bent  over  his  brushes ;  "  women  is  so  good. 
But  boys  is  mean"  he  added  indignantly. 
"Boys  is  so  mean  ;  some  boys." 


VL 

THE    FELLOW. 

THE  bootblack  argued  wisely  that  he  had 
best  let  the  dog  be  until  sure  the  hunt  for  him 
was  over. 

"  It  won't  hurt  him  none  to  rest  a  bit,  111  be 
bound,"  he  told  himself;  "and  then  maybe 
he'll  eat  his  dinner,  with  the  compliments  of  the 
lady ;  and  111  fetch  him  home  with  me  to  live." 

There  was  a  note  of  exultation  in  the  boy's 
voice  ;  all  his  life  long  he  had  wished  for  a  dog. 
He  had  been  too  poor  ever  to  own  one;  but 
now  that  one  had  actually  come  to  him,  made  a 
claim  upon  his  humanity,  as  it  were,  he  felt 
that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  adopt  the  stray. 
Then,  too,  there  was  nobody  whose  permission 
he  had  to  obtain  ;  he  was  all  alone  in  the  world, 
had  always  been  so,  so  far  as  he  knew.  He 
remembered  that  once  when  a  little  boy  he  had 
run  away  from  a  family  who  claimed  to  have 


44  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

picked  him  up  on  the  streets,  where  he  had 
been  deserted.  They  had  treated  him  misera- 
bly, and  at  last  he  had  run  away.  Another 
boy,  a  street  gamin  like  himself,  had  instructed 
him  in  the  art  of  bootblacking,  and  had  pre- 
sented him  with  his  own  outfit  when  a  farmer 
had  volunteered  to  give  him  work  and  a  home 
at  his  place  in  the  country.  The  boy's  business 
was  not  a  large  one,  but  he  had  managed  to 
pay  for  a  little  room  in  a  shanty  at  the  end  of  a 
quiet  street  in  the  rougher  part  of  the  city. 
True,  he  had  only  a  pallet  there,  but  the  room 
was  his  own,  the  pallet  big  enough  for  two,  and 
the  dog,  "the  other  stray,"  he  called  it,  was 
welcome  to  share  both  with  him. 

The  dog  would  doubtless  go  hungry  many 
times,  but  he  would  always  have  his  part  of  the 
pallet,  that  was  certain  ;  and  it  was  the  best 
the  boy  could  do  ;  nobody  can  do  more. 

He  wouldn't  have  invited  a  dog  to  come  and 
live  with  him  on  those  terms,  but  if  one  chose 
to  come  of  his  own  accord,  why,  that  was  quite 
another  matter. 

He  couldn't  quite  feel,  however,  that  the 
dog's  life  was  secure  from  the  mob  of  boys  who 
had  been  chasing  him.  He  felt  that  they  would 


THE    FELLOW.  45 

come  back  to  look  for  him  ;  indeed,  they  had 
cast  more  than  a  passing  glance  at  the  big  box 
as  they  went  by ;  it  was  the  presence  of  the 
lady,  and  her  very  cross  air,  perhaps,  that  had 
prevented  their  stopping  to  search.  He  was 
right ;  the  boys  had  lost  track  of  the  dog,  and 
having  lost  him  the  men  who  had  come  out  to 
look  on  began  to  laugh  at  them,  and  to  call  out 
to  them  to  know  where  their  mad  dog  had  gone. 
At  last  they  determined  to  retrace  their  steps  ; 
the  dog  had  clearly  dodged,  not  escaped.  They 
went  straight  back  to  the  bootblack.  He  was 
busily  cleaning  his  brushes  when  the  leader  of 
the  gang  stopped  to  accost  him  : 

"  I  say  now,  have  you  seen  a  dog?" 

The  bootblack  looked  up. 

"  Many's  the  one,"  said  he. 

The  other  boys  began  to  laugh. 

"I  say  now,"  said  the  first  one,  "have  you 
seen  a  stray  ?  A  runaway  dog  pass  this  way  ? " 

"  A  mad  dog,  you  better  say,"  chirped  in  the 
boy  who  had  been  the  first  to  discover  "the 
lion  "  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

"Oh,"  said  the  bootblack,  "you  mean  that 
there  ugly  mad  dog  you  was  all  runnin'  after 
awhile  ago  ?  Is  it  him  you've  lost?" 


46  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

"Yes,"  they  cried,  "did  he  come  this  way?" 

"You  bet  your  life  he  did,"  said  the  boot- 
black. "  You  ought  to  know  that,  you  was  all 
followin'  of  him." 

"But  we  lost  him,"  said  the  leader.  "We 
lost  him  right  along  here.  Which  way  did  he 
go  ? " 

The  bootblack  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the 
pavement  and  looked  up  the  street. 

"  As  nigh  as  I  can  make  out,"  said  he,  "  I 
was  busy  at  that  time,  but  nigh  as  I  can  make 
out,  he  come  straight  down  that  there  street, 
and  he  was  headed  for  that  way,  fast  as  his 
legs  could  carry  him.  I  think  he  met  his 
friends  somewhere  down  the  street,  and  they 
took  him;  anyhows  I'd  think  you  boys  had 
better  mind  how  you  gits  to  chasin'  other  peo- 
ple's dogs;  first  thing  you  know,  you'll  find 
yourselves  in  trouble." 

"Shucks!"  said  one,  "this  was  just  a  mad 
dog.  We're  goin'  to  find  him  and  kill  him." 

"Well,"  said  the  bootblack,  "the  last  I  seen 
of  him  he  was  headed  that  there  way,"  and  the 
bootblack  pointed  down  the  street.  A  moment, 
and  the  crowd  had  disappeared,  down  street, 
also,  bent  upon  finding  the  unlucky  vagabond 


THE    FELLOW.  47 

that  was  at  that  moment  hidden  safely  in  the 
box  of  his  new  friend. 

The  boy  let  him  be  until  noon.  Then  he 
stepped  down  the  street  a  little  way  and  bought 
some  meat  at  a  butcher's  stall  When  he  went 
back  he  stooped  down  upon  his  knees  to  look 
at  his  new  companion.  The  dog  was  lying 
stretched  out  upon  the  bottom  of  the  box,  still 
too  weary  and  bruised  to  stir.  Such  a  dilapi- 
dated dog,  so  torn  and  broken  and  covered  with 
dust  and  foam,  you  would  have  to  look  again, 
and  yet  again,  before  you  were  ready  to  admit 
that  the  poor,  miserable  stray  was  Baydaw,  the 
petted  treasure  of  the  little  boy  who  died. 

Yet  it  was  he.  What  misfortune,  what  un- 
lucky turn  of  fate  had  cast  him  out  upon  the 
charity  of  the  world  ?  And  where  was  our  good 
friend,  the  farrier,  who  had  promised  to  care  for 
the  creature  left  him  ?  The  bootblack  knew 
nothing  of  the  cur's  history,  to  be  sure.  He 
only  knew  that  he  had  stumbled  upon  a  thing 
in  need,  "a  weary  fellow  creature,"  he  called  it, 
and  with  a  grace  well  becoming  more  lucky 
mortals,  he  bowed  his  shoulders  for  the  burden 
misfortune  had  thrown  in  his  path.  He  re- 
mained upon  his  knees  looking  in  at  the  tired 


48  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

creature,  his  own  lonely  heart  going  out  with  a 
great  pity  for  the  friendless  vagabond. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  he,  coaxingly.  "  Poor 
old  fellow ;  he's  jist  frazzled  out,  that's  what 
he  is." 

The  quick  instinct  of  the  brute  detected  the 
friendly  tone  in  the  voice.  The  shaggy  head 
was  lifted,  and  the  poor,  dilapidated  tail  made  a 
feeble  attempt  to  acknowledge  the  sympathy  by 
a  friendly  wag. 

"There,  there,  now,"  said  the  boy,  "come 
out,  can't  you,  and  take  a  bite  o'  dinner  ?  The 
lady  said  you  was  to,  and  them's  her  compli- 
ments. Will  you  come  out  now  ? "  He  was 
talking  to  him  as  though  he'd  been  a  human 
being.  He  always  talked  to  the  dog  so,  always 
after  that.  He  began  it  that  first  day,  and  he 
always  kept  it  up.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
dog  understood,  too,  for  with  a  great  effort,  and 
after  falling  back  more  than  once,  he  staggered 
to  his  feet,  and  crept  out  upon  the  pavement. 
Poor  fellow,  indeed.  Poor,  poor  fellow.  Could 
this  dilapidated  thing  be  the  fat,  fortunate  Bay- 
daw  ?  Ah,  farrier,  how  you  have  neglected 
your  trust !  The  bootblack  coaxed  the  dog  off 
to  a  corner,  near  by,  and  fed  him  the  bits  of 


THE    FELLOW. 


49 


meat  he  had  bought  for  him,  talking  the  while 
in  a  gentle,  coaxing  way,  to  which  the  poor  tail 
responded  as  gracefully  as  its  tattered  condition 
would  permit, 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  the  boy,  "poor  fellow; 
he's  a  stray,  too,  that  he  is.     Picked  up  oflfn 


the  streets,  too,  same  as  me.  I  reckon  we're 
like  one  'nother ;  no  folks,  no  home,  no  nothin* ; 
/  reckon  were  fellows" 

And  right  there,  if  you  please,  is  where  the 
"  Fellow  "  enters  the  story.  The  dog  ate  his 
dinner  greedily,  if  not  gracefully,  for  he  was 
a  hungry  dog,  indeed,  and  all  the  while  the 


50  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

shaven  tail  was  busy  making  acknowledg- 
ments. 

"  I  reckon  a  boy  and  a  dog  is  most  alike  any- 
how," said  the  bootblack  ;  "  only  there's  this 
difference :  if  a  dog  gits  tired  of  it  he  can  up 
and  die,  but  a  boy  —  he's  got  to  fight  it  out 
somehows."  "It"  meaning  life,  poor  fellow. 
"  But  we'll  stand  by  one  'nother,  I  reckon,  and 
try  to  be  real  fellows,  maybe  ?  "  And  the  poor 
tail  made  the  proper  acknowledgment. 

"That's  a  nice  tail,"  said  the  boy,  and  then 
the  dog  looked  up.  There  certainly  was  some- 
thing familiar  in  that  compliment.  "  Yes,  sir, 
that's  a  right  nice  tail,  or  would  be  if  it  was 
let  to  grow  out  again.  It's  got  a  real  crinkle 
to  it.  Say,  now !  I  wonder  if  some  little  boy 
somewhere  ain't  been  sort  o'  fond  o'  you,  any- 
how ? " 

Was  it  fancy,  or  did  the  big,  dust-blinded 
eyes  look  up  knowingly  ?  Were  there  tears  in 
them  ?  Was  the  poor  stray  thinking  of  the 
dear,  dear  little  boy  who  had  thought  that  such 
a  lovely  crinkle  ?  Was  he  wondering  where 
the  boy  had  gone  ?  Did  he  know  that  those 
he  had  left  behind  would  have  spared  them- 
selves many  luxuries  to  have  at  that  moment 


THE   FELLOW.  5! 

possessed  themselves  of  that  same  bushy  tail 
and  its  owner,  dilapidated  though  he  was  ? 

The  stray  lay  under  the  box  all  the  long  hot 
afternoon.  At  dark  the  bootblack  stooped  and 
called  to  him  softly : 

"  Crink  ?  "  said  he,  "  Crinkle,  old  boy  ?  It's 
time  we  was  a-gettin'  home  with  us." 

That  night  they  lay  on  the  pallet  together, 
the  dog  and  his  fellow.  The  bruises  were 
bound  up,  and  the  injured  leg  doctored  a  bit, 
and  then  they  had  a  bite  of  supper,  and  lay 
down  to  rest.  The  dog  curled  up  thankfully  at 
the  Fellow's  feet,  safe  from  stones  and  sticks 
and  those  other  flls  that  follow  the  fortunes, 
or  misfortunes,  of  a  stray.  The  bootblack  had 
never  been  so  happy,  the  dog,  perhaps,  never 
so  gratefuL  This  was  the  first  of  their  days 
together,  and  a  fair  example  of  many  that  fol- 
lowed. They  were  fast  friends,  and  faithful. 
Sometimes  there  was  but  a  crust,  but  it  was 
conscientiously  divided  into  two  equal  parts; 
and  once  when  the  crust  was  quite  too  small  to 
think  of  dividing,  the  boy  went  supperless. 

They  had  a  hard  lot,  both  of  them  ;  for  the 
boy  was  miserably  poor ;  and  then,  strive  as  he 
would  to  protect  his  friend,  there  were  times 


52  THE    FARRIERS    DOG. 

when  the  dog  suffered  from  abuse.  His  first 
enemies,  the  street  boys,  would  not  forget  that 
he  was  a  stray,  a  vagabond.  They  felt  priv- 
ileged to  abuse  him.  But,  notwithstanding  his 
hard  lot,  the  cur  began  after  awhile  to  look 
more  like  himself.  His  tail  began  to  grow  out, 
and  the  old  crinkle  came  back,  more  wavy, 
more  glossy,  more  bushy  than  ever.  If  only 
he  had  not  been  so  lean  he  would  have  been  a 
very  nice  looking  dog  indeed.  His  leanness 
was  deplorable;  it  was  the  result  of  starvation. 
"  Slow  starvation,"  the  bootblack  said ;  and 
whenever  he  said  it,  and  ran  his  fingers  over 
the  dog's  yellow  coat  and  felt,  the  ribs  sharp 
and  forbidding,  he  would  fight  the  tears  back 
and  "  allow  they'd  have  better  luck  another  day." 

"  Anyhow,  we're  fellows,"  he  would  declare. 
"  We'll  fight  it  out  together.  And  if  I  go  first, 
or  am  like  to,  I'll  send  you  off  along  ahead  o' 
me.  But  by  an  easy  route,  you  may  make  sure 
o'  that.  I  won't  leave  you  for  the  boys  to 
worry,  that  I  won't." 

It  was  a  well-known  thing  to  him  that  every 
time  the  dog  went  out  without  his  master  he 
was  stoned  or  beaten  ;  and  once  he  had  come 
back  with  a  little  patch  of  his  skin  burnt  off, 


THE    FELLOW.  53 

where  some  hard-hearted  cook  had  thrown  hot 
water  upon  him. 

"  Boys  is  mean,"  said  the  bootblack,  when  the 
dog  came  in  with  his  scald  to  be  doctored  ; 
"  boys  is  mean,  some  boys ;  but  they  ain't  nigh 
so  mean  as  cooks  is." 

Yes,  they  had  rather  a  sorry  time  of  it,  those 
two ;  but  they  were  happier  for  each  other. 
They  were  fellows,  indeed,  as  the  boy  said  ; 
fellows  in  hunger,  in  homelessness,  in  cold,  in 
misfortune.  And  all  the  while  they  were  get- 
ting leaner,  both  of  them,  and  less  able  to 
"fight  it  out,"  as  the  boy  expressed  it.  The 
dog  proved  most  valuable  those  days  ;  he  car- 
ried the  bootblack's  "  tools  "  for  him ;  ran 
errands  right  wisely,  for  a  dog ;  and  when  he 
could  dodge  his  tormentors,  the  street  gamins, 
he  was  upon  the  whole  rather  a  happy  dog. 
But  the  boys  continued  to  torment  him ;  they 
called  him  "old  Crink,"  because  of  the  tail,  and 
he  was  getting  to  be  quite  famous  in  their  cir- 
cles as  something  to  be  "  shied  at,"  that  is, 
rocked.  Yet  he  was  faithful  to  his  "fellow," 
the  boy  who  had  rescued  him.  As  he  had 
loved  his  first  little  master,  so  was  he  grateful 
to  his  second. 


VII. 

OLD    ACQUAINTANCES. 

ONE  morning  in  spring,  when  the  dog  and 
boy  had  been  fellows  for  almost  a  twelve- 
month, the  bootblack  sat  down  upon  his  own 
empty  chair,  and  thought  over  his  prospects. 
Things  had  never  looked  quite  so  bad.  A  boy 
with  a  flaming  new  outfit  had  opened  up  a  stand 
at  the  next  corner.  His  own  customers  were 
all  stopping  there.  His  chair  hadn't  had  an 
occupant  now  for  three  days,  except  such  as 
the  boy  had  taken  for  charity.  His  rent  would 
soon  be  falling  due,  there  wasn't  a  crust  in  his 
cupboard. 

"  See  here,  now,"  said  he,  in  a  way  he  had  of 
talking  to  himself,  "  see  here,  now,  first  thing 
we  know  that  there  dog  will  starve."  He  was 
thinking  of  the  dog,  poor  fellow,  not  of  himself. 
And  as  though  his  thought  might  have  been  a 
prayer  (they  very  often  are,  I  think),  and  an 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCES.  55 

answer  had  been  sent  at  once,  at  that  very 
moment  a  gentleman  came  down  the  street  and 
stopped. 

"  Hello,"  said  he,  "  busy  ? " 

"Busy  doin'  nothin',"  said  the  boy,  as  he 
darted  down  and  offered  the  chair  to  the  gen- 
tleman. 

"  Shine,  sir?" 

He  brushed  away  industriously,  and  so  care- 
fully that  the  man  took  note  of  him  after  awhile, 
and  of  the  yellow  cur  lying  near  by  intently 
watching  the  operation,  as  though  he  under- 
stood a  bite  of  beef  was  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  with  every  movement  of  his  good  Fel- 
low's arm. 

"  Is  that  your  dog  ?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  That  ? "  said  the  Fellow,  "  why  that's  my 
pardner,  sir,"  with  very  honest  pride  in  the 
statement. 

"  Your  partner,  eh  ?  And  where  did  you  pick 
him  up  ?  " 

"  Right  there  on  that  idintical  spot  where 
he's  a-layin',"  was  the  reply.  "  I  sort  of  ris- 
cued  him  from  the  mob,  so  to  speak.  If  you 
doubts  it,  ask  him.  He's  a  nice  dog,  if  the 
boys  would  let  him  be.  But  boys  is  mean ; 


56  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

some  boys.  Now,  I  tell  you,  a  good  dog  is 
better  company  than  a  bad  boy,  times  out  o' 
mind.  They  worries  that  dog  a-mighty  nigh  to 
death,  jist  because  he's  a  stray,  and  nobody 
to  have  'em  up  about  it.  That's  the  way  boys 
is,  some  boys.  Crink  there  knows,  don't  you, 
son  ? "  The  dog  looked  and  wagged  his  bushy 
tail. 

"We're  fellows,"  the  boy  went  on.  "That 
there  dog  and  me  are  fellows  ;  we's  both  had  a 
tolerable  steep  hill  to  climb.  He's  got  sense, 
though,  I  tell  you.  He  knows  this  here  shine 
means  beef  for  supper,  hey,  Crink  ?  " 

They  talked  on  until  the  boots  had  been  care- 
fully polished  :  the  customer  hadn't  said  much, 
just  enough  to  make  the  bootblack  talk.  He 
liked  the  boy,  somehow.  So  when  this  new 
acquaintance  left  the  chair  he  put  a  half  dollar 
in  the  boy's  hand. 

"  Never  mind  now  about  the  change,"  said 
he,  "  but  go  and  spend  every  cent  of  it  for  a 
supper  for  you  —  you  —  'fellows.'  "  He  pointed 
to  the  dog,  and  before  the  astonished  bootblack 
had  recovered  his  breath  the  man  was  gone. 
Then  the  boy  turned  to  the  dog : 

"Never  you  mind,  son,"  said  he,  "when  this 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCES.  57 

day's  work  is  done,  and  us  'fellows'  go  home  by 
way  of  the  baker's  and  butcher's  — yum  ! yum  !  " 
But  when  the  day  was  over,  and  they  started 
home,  the  boy  was  not  pleased  to  see  a  big, 
brawny  stranger  dogging  their  footsteps.  He 


turned  into  several  by-streets,  in  order  to  make 
perfectly  sure  the  strange  man  was  following 
him  ;  yes,  it  was  quite  clear ;  there  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it.  When  he  stopped  at  the 
baker's  and  looked  over  his  shoulder,  there  the 


58  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

man  was,  so  near  that  he  hurried  off  without 
the  bread  he  had  come  to  buy.  The  same  thing 
was  repeated  at  the  butcher's.  The  bootblack 
was  almost  frightened. 

"  This  won't  do,"  said  he  to  the  dog.  "That 
there  man  knows  about  that  there  fifty  cents. 
Us  fellows  has  got  to  dodge." 

Yet,  dodge  as  they  would,  and  did,  when  they 
reached  home,  there  was  the  big  stranger  close 
behind  them.  The  boy  went  in,  the  dog  at  his 
heels,  and  drew  the  door  fast  behind  him. 

"There's  the  money,"  said  he,  laying  it  upon 
the  table.  "He  can  have  it,  if  he's  half  as 
hungry  as  we've  been  this  day,  Crink.  But  I 
misdoubts  it's  the  money  he's  wantin'.  Here, 
sir,  you  creep  right  under  there."  The  dog 
crept  behind  a  box  in  the  corner,  and  the  boy 
threw  over  him  the  clothes  that  had  made  their 
common  bed.  He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  a 
knock  sounded  upon  the  door.  It  was  a  loud 
knock,  as  though  made  by  a  strong  hand.  He 
went  at  once  and  opened  the  door.  Just  as  he 
thought,  there  stood  the  man  who  had  been 
following  him.  He  was  a  big,  brown  fellow, 
and  wore  a  suit  of  country  jeans.  His  face  was 
tanned,  and  his  beard  long  and  bushy ;  yet,  to 


OLD   ACQUAINTANCES.  59 

the  bootblack's  keen  eye  something  appeared 
that  was  not  cruelty,  by  any  means.  Still,  he 
considered,  it  might  be  as  well  to  be  cautious. 
He  put  on  his  very  bravest  air  as  he  demanded : 

"Well,  now,  what's  wanted  here?" 

The  visitor  pushed  his  hat  back,  and  mopped 
his  brow,  trying  the  while  to  peep  into  the  room. 
The  boy  was  as  determined  that  he  should  not 
do  so  as  the  man  was  to  see. 

"  Have  you,"  said  he,  hesitating,  "  have  you 
seen  —  a  —  a  —  dog  ?  " 

"  Many's  the  one,  pard,"  said  the  bootblack, 
as  bravely  as  he  could ;  for  somehow  he  in- 
stinctively felt  that,  at  last,  the  parting,  which 
he  had  ever  feared  must  sooner  or  later  come, 
was  at  hand.  His  heart  was  thumping  like  a 
sledge-hammer,  though  he  stood  bravely  in  the 
doorway,  a  hand  on  either  lintel,  watching  the 
face  of  the  man  before  him. 

"  I  mean,"  said  the  stranger,  "  or,  I  thought, 
—  well,  I  was  hunting  for  a  dog,  and  I  thought 
he  ran  in  here." 

"  Thoughts  killed  a  cat,  once't,"  said  the  boy, 
bravely  again;  although  his  heart  thumped 
against  his  ribs  till  it  hurt  him.  "Thoughts 
killed  a  cat ;  and  now,  seeing  the  dog  didn't 


60  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

run  in  "  (indeed  he  had  walked  quite  soberly  in), 
"  s'posin'  you  walk  out." 

The  man  had  edged  himself  quite  well  into 
the  room.  He  was  looking  eagerly  about  the 
shabby  little  den,  a  tender  look  in  his  big,  sad 
eyes,  which  the  bootblack  couldn't  quite  see, 
because  of  the  broad  hat  he  wore,  and  the  gath- 
ering gloom  of  the  evening. 

"  Say,  now,"  said  the  boy,  "  didn't  I  tell  you 
as  your  dog  wasn't  here  ?  Will  you  git  out  now, 
you  — 

"  Baydaw  ?  "  said  the  man,  softly,  "  Baydaw  ? 
I  was  so  sure  I  saw  him." 

"But  I  tell  you,  no,"  said  the  boy.  "Will 
you  git  out  — 

And  just  here  that  graceless,  seemingly 
thankless  cur  had  the  ingratitude  to  run  out 
deliberately  from  his  hiding-place,  and,  with 
a  low  whine,  to  crouch  at  the  stranger's  feet, 
and  begin  to  try  to  lick  his  hand. 

The  man  lifted  his  arm. 

"  Don't  you  tetch  him  !  "  The  bootblack  was 
almost  at  the  stranger's  throat.  "  Don't  you 
dare  to  hit  him,  you,  else  I'll  fight  you,  if  I  git 
my  head  broke.  Don't  you  lay  a  finger  to  him. 
He  ain't  had  nothin'  but  licks,  and  bruises,  and 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCES. 


6l 


scaldin's ;  and,  if  you've  come  here  to  worrit 
him,  you'd  best  git  out  afore  I  bust  your  head 
for  you,  and  don't  you  furgit  it,  nuther." 

He  was  crying ;  crying  aloud,  not  in  a  shamed 
way  at  all ;  he  was  weak  and  faint  with  hunger, 


and  this  cur  was  all  that  he  had.  He  wasn't  at 
all  ashamed  of  his  tears  ;  though,  if  he  had  not 
been  crying,  perhaps  he  might  have  seen  that 
the  man  was  softly  patting  the  head  of  the  poor 
stray,  and  was  calling  him  "  Baydaw,"  in  a 


62  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

tender  way,  and  that  the  cur  was  whimpering 
delighted  recognition  in  true  dog  fashion. 

"  He  ain't  got  no  friends,"  the  boy  said,  bro- 
kenly, between  his  sobs;  "he  ain't  got  nobody 
but  jist  me ;  but  danged  if  I  don't  stand  to 
him.  There  !  and  there." 

He  was  pounding  the  great  shoulders  stooped 
over  the  stray  in  right  royal  defence. 

The  man  had  not  spoken  to  the  boy  since  the 
dog's  appearance  from  under  the  bedclothes  ; 
but  now  he  straightened  himself  up,  and  took 
the  Fellow's  arm  in  his  strong  grasp,  and  held  it. 

"  See  here,  now,  sonny,"  said  he,  "  I  wouldn't 
hit  that  dog,  nor  abuse  it,  not  for  all  the  money 
in  this  here  town,  ^nd  I  reckon  there's  consid- 
er'ble.  You  listen  to  me  a  minute  ;  let  me  come 
in  and  talk  to  you,  after  I've  —  I've  seen  — 
hint. 

And,  without  waiting  for  further  permission, 
the  farrier,  for  it  was  the  farrier,  went  in,  and 
seated  himself  upon  the  box  behind  which  the 
dog  had  been  hiding.  He  didn't  say  anything 
at  first,  but  just  stroked  the  dog's  head,  and 
sighed,  and  listened  to  the  boy  sobbing.  Then, 
when  the  sound  of  the  sobs  had  ceased,  he 
began  to  talk. 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCES.  63 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  to  find  him,"  said  he.  "  I 
reckon  I've  a-mighty  nigh  hunted  the  state  over 
for  him.  Baydaw,  old  boy,  we'll  be  goin'  home, 
now." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  the  bootblack.  "  He's 
ray  dog,  now.  I  rescued  him.  They  was  about 
to  kill  him,  and  he  was  crippled,  and  lame,  and 
hurt  all  over;  and  he  run  to  me,  and  I  rescued 
him,  and  he's  mine" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  farrier  ;  "  he's  yours,  if 
you  claim  him."  And  all  the  while,  through 
the  good  farrier's  brain  was  running  a  text, 
something  about  "naked,  and  ye  took  me  in, 
hungry,  and  ye  fed  me,"  and  he  was  vaguely 
wondering  if  it  wouldn't  apply  to  dogs,  too, 
since  they  were  creatures  of  God's  creating. 
"He's  yours,  if  you  claim  him,  sonny ;  but  wait 
till  I  tell  you  about  the  little  boy  that  owned 
him,  and  that  loved  him  mightily,  and  that  sent 
for  me  when  he  was  a-dyin',  and  told  me  to 
take  care  of  him.  And  of  the  folks  back  there, 
the  little  fellow's  folks,  that  would  give  a  lot  to 
get  hold  of  him,  they  loved  him  so  for  the  little 
fellow's  having  loved  him,  and  how  anxious  they 
be  to  have  him  back,  and,  then,  if  you  say  you 
want  to  keep  him,  I'll  say  no  more." 


64  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

The  bootblack  was  listening  intently  ;  he  had 
always  believed  the  dog  had  been  a  pet,  it  had 
responded  so  readily  to  that  first  word  of  sym- 
pathy. Still,  he  wasn't  ready  to  part  with 
him. 

"  If  he  was  left  to  your  care,"  said  he,  "  how 
come  he  was  runnin'  wild  over  the  country, 
starved  like,  and  with  his  hair  all  shaved  off, 
and  the  boys  rockin'  of  him,  and  callin'  of  him 
'mad  dog?'  Seems  like  you  wasn't  takin'  such 
mighty  good  care  of  him  then." 

The  farrier  sighed. 

"See  here,  now,"  said  he,  "you  haven't  had 
your  supper  yet,  and  neither  has  the  dog.  You 
both  come  with  me.  After  we've  had  supper 
I'm  coming  back  here,  and  tell  you  all  about 
it,  and  then  I'm  a-goin'  to  leave  you  be  till 
to-morrow.  You  may  think  about  it  to-night, 
after  I've  told  you,  and  to-morrow  we'll  see 
what  you  think.  You're  to  do  just  as  you 
please  about  it ;  because  you  have  got  a  claim  : 
you  took  him  in  and  keered  for  him.  You 
saved  his  life.  It  ain't  the  first  time  it's  been 
saved,  but  it  gives  you  a  claim,  and  I  mean  to 
respect  it.  Come,  now." 

The  boy  looked  up  : 


OLD    ACQUAINTANCES.  6$ 

"  He's  all  I've  got,"  said  he.  "  He's  all  the 
friend  I've  got  in  the  world ;  him  and  me  was 
—  was  —  sort  —  o'  — fellows" 

And  the  farrier  could  scarcely  carry  the  boy 
off  to  his  supper  for  the  tears  that  blinded  his 
eyes. 


VIII. 

TO    THE    GREEN    HILLS. 

IT  was  a  great  pity  the  bootblack  had  not 
much  appetite  that  evening,  for  it  was  a  goodly 
meal  the  farrier  ordered  at  the  little  restaurant 
around  the  corner  of  a  quiet  street  not  far 
away.  There  were  mealy  potatoes  and  fresh 
yellow  butter,  and  a  steaming  steak  with  savory 
onions,  and  a  pudding.  But  somehow  the  boy's 
hunger  was  gone.  Baydaw,  as  we  must  call 
him  again,  sat  on  his  haunches,  between  the 
two,  watching  with  happy  eyes  first  one  and 
then  the  other,  and  wagging  his  tail  whenever 
his  old  master  put  out  his  hand  to  stroke  his 
yellow  coat.  The  farrier  did  most  of  the  talk- 
ing. The  boy  watched  him,  much  the  same  as 
he  had  watched  the  little  lady  in  gray  who  had 
helped  him  to  rescue  the  dog  that  day  in 
August.  He  was  a  fine  judge  of  faces  ;  and  a 
man's  manner  soon  opened  the  lad's  eyes  as  to 


TO    THE    GREEX    HILLS.  6? 

the  manner  of  the  man's  character.  He  was 
not  long  in  making  out,  in  a  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory way  to  his  own  mind,  that  the  farrier 
"  -would  do^  The  knowledge  gave  him  a  great 
heartache,  however;  for  with  it  came  also  the 
reflection  that  he  ought  honestly  to  turn  the 
dog  over  to  his  proper  owner. 

When  the  meal  was  finished,  and  the  boot- 
black had  gathered  up  a  bountiful  repast  for 
the  dog,  the  two  went  back  to  the  little  house 
that  had  made  a  pretense  of  a  home  for  the 
bootblack. 

"Don't  light  your  candle  yet,"  said  the 
smith.  "It  is  a  fine  moonlight,  and  well  just 
sit  here  in  the  door  and  talk  a  bit." 

So  they  did ;  though  it  was  the  farrier  who 
did  most  of  the  talking. 

"Now  that  there  dog,"  said  he,  "come 
a-mighty  nigh  a-bein*  drowned  once't,"  and  then 
he  told  the  story  of  the  little  boy  who  had  inter- 
ceded in  the  cur's  behalf.  He  told  all  about 
the  visits  to  the  shop,  all  about  his  own  lonely 
life,  his  house  that  had  neither  wife  nor  chil- 
dren to  make  it  glad,  and  how  the  dog  had  been 
like  a  human  being  for  company  after  the  little 
boy  went  away. 


68  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

"  He  give  it  to  me,"  said  he.  "  He  sent  for 
me  when  he  was  dyin'  and  give  it  back  to  me ; 
because  he  allowed  as  I'd  be  good  to  it,  and 
love  it  because  it  had  been  his  dog.  And  I 
meant  to,  Lord  love  you,  I  meant  to.  But  you 
see  it  was  this  way." 

Then  he  told  how  he  was  called  away  one 
morning  to  see  a  sick  brother  at  a  little  town 
two  miles  distant,  how  the  brother  died,  and  he 
himself  was  taken  sick  with  the  same  disease, 
and  did  not  know  his  name  for  two  whole 
weeks.  And  how  the  dog  had  been  left  at 
home  guarding  the  shop  ;  how  he  must  have 
waited  and  waited,  almost  have  starved  to 
death  ;  for  the  big  house  on  the  hill  was  closed, 
and  the  owners  gone  away,  else  he  had  been 
looked  after.  And  how,  at  last,  he  must  have 
left  and  wandered  on  until  he  came  to  the  town 
where  the  bootblack  had  rescued  him  from  the 
mob  of  boys.  Then  he  told  of  the  pleasant 
village  in  which  he  lived,  and  of  the  beautiful 
country  around.  "  Green  hills  that  look  down 
upon  the  blooming  valleys,  and  rivers  that  flow 
right  along,"  said  he. 

"Rivers  that  flow  right  along;"  the  boot- 
black, born  and  brought  up  in  the  city's  dusty 


TO    THE    GREEX    HILLS.  69 

heart,  had  heard  of  them,  the  beautiful  rivers, 
and  the  green  hills  that  looked  down  upon 
them;  he  had  heard  of  them  —  dreamed  of 
them  sometimes,  upon  his  pallet  of  old  rags,  or 
in  his  empty  chair  on  the  pavement,  in  the  hot 
sun  of  a  summer's  day.  Dreamed  of  these 
beautiful  things  that  a  dog  might  have,  but  not 
a  boy  —  alas  for  it ! 

"  He's  the  only  friend  I've  got,"  he  said, 
when  they  had  sat  silent  a  moment,  each  face 
showing  distinct  in  the  moonlight,  the  dog 
curled  up  at  their  feet,  unconscious  that  his 
own  destiny  was  being  swung  in  the  balance. 

"  He's  the  only  friend  I've  got,  that  there 
dog  is,  and  we're  fellows.  Him  and  me  is 
fellows ;  we  ain't  got  nobody  but  jist  one 
'nother ;  least,  /  ain't."  There  was  a  silence 
again ;  then  the  boy  said :  "  They'll  be  good 
to  him,  them  there  folks  o'  the  little  kid's  ?  " 

"Good?  They'd  give  a  hundred  dollars  to 
have  him  in  their  kennel  this  minute,  they 
would,"  said  the  smith. 

"  It  seems,"  said  the  bootblack,  "  as  though 
some  o'  his  folks  had  died,  and  left  him  a  lump. 
I  heard  of  a  boy  like  that  once ;  but  I  never 
knowed  if  'twas  true.  Such  a  thing  don't 


/O  THE    FARRIER  S    DOG. 

happen  often,  I  reckin.  And  now  it  has  hap- 
pened to  a  dog.  I'd  ought  to  let  him  go,  I 
know.  The  boys  rock  him,  and  he  don't  git 
enough  to  eat  always.  And  it's  hot,  mighty 
hot,  here.  And  there  ain't  no  'rivers  that  flow,' 
and  all  that.  And  I  reckin  I  don't  deserve  him 
nohow ;  because  once  I  didn't  divide  fair  when 
we  was  both  hungry.  I  took  half  a  pone  more'n 
I  give  him,  I  was  that  hungry.  And  there 
he'll  git  enough,  always  enough  to  eat,  and 
a  good  bed  to  sleep  in.  Maybe  the  crink'll 
come  back  to  his  tail  real  good.  I'd  ought  to 
let  him  go  — 

He  was  silent,  watching  the  moonlight  where 
it  fell  upon  a  heap  of  rubbish,  old  glass,  ashes, 
and  tin  cans.  How  they  glimmered  and  shone  ; 
yet  he  knew  that  in  the  daylight  the  sun  made 
that  heap  a  sickening  thing;  hot,  and  full  of 
unhealthy  odors.  * 

11  You're  to  do  just  as  you  like,"  said  the 
farrier,  as  though  he  didn't  know,  from  the 
moment  he  looked  into  the  boy's  face,  just  what 
he  would  do.  There  are  some  open  faces,  like 
the  boy's,  behind  which  there  is  always  an  hon- 
est, unselfish  heart,  you  may  be  sure  of  that. 

The  boy  didn't  notice  the  interruption.     He 


THK  OJH.Y   FHKXD   I'VE  GOT. 


TO   THE    GREEX    HILLS.  73 

was  making  comparisons :  here  was  a  rubbish 
heap,  the  hot  sun  in  summer,  and  the  biting 
wind  in  winter,  the  empty  cupboard,  the  dry 
crust,  the  rocks,  and  the  taunts  of  the  street 
gamins.  Yonder,  where  he  might  go,  this  good 
dog  of  his,  was  food  in  plenty,  a  bed,  and  some- 
how, it  rang  in  his  ears,  what  the  farrier  had 
said  about  the  hills  and  the  rivers :  "  the  rivers 
that  flow  right  along." 

"  He's  the  only  friend  I've  got ;  and  —  we 
are  — fellows." 

The  bootblack  buried  his  little  face  in  his 
arms,  crossed  upon  his  knees. 

"There,  there,  then,"  said  the  farrier,  "well 
say  no  more  about  it.  If  you're  fond  of  him 
you'll  do  the  best  you  can  by  him,  and  I  reckon 
the  little  one  would  be  satisfied  if  he  knew; 
maybe  he  does  know  ;  it  ain't  for  me  to  say." 

The  bootblack  rifted  his  head.  He  was  a 
lonely  little  fellow ;  he  had  always  been  lonely. 
In  all  his  poor  little  life  he  had  never  had  any- 
thing to  love  until  this  yellow  cur  had  drifted 
into  his  life  upon  the  waters  of  misfortune. 
Alas  for  it !  that  struggling  humanity,  innocent 
childhood,  should  be  reduced  to  the  love  of  a 
dog. 


74  THE  FARRIER'S  DOG. 

The  boy  straightened  himself,  and  looked  the 
farrier  in  the  eye  : 

"I  ain't  the  boy,"  said  he,  "to  keep  a  good 
dog  out  of  a  good  home.  You  take  him  along. 
Maybe  the  little  kid  what  loved  him  does  know 
about  it.  If  he  does,  I'd  like  him  to  know  I 
give  him  up  for  his  good.  You  take  him 
along." 

The  farrier  rose,  and  shook  himself,  and 
called  to  the  dog  stretched  out  in  the  silver 
moonlight : 

"  Baydaw,  come,  sir!"  The  dog  rose,  and 
shook  himself.  The  boy  rose,  too  :  there  was 
going  to  be  a  parting.  The  boy  didn't  like  that. 
He  turned  his  back,  and,  without  looking  at  his 
old  friend,  he  said  that  the  farrier  could  just  go 
out  that  other  door,  and  he  reckoned  the  dog 
would  follow. 

He  did  so.  He  understood  that  the  boy  did 
not  want  to  have  a  scene,  and  he  thought  him- 
self that  was  the  best  thing  to  do. 

"  I  reckon  now,"  he  told  himself,  as  he  passed 
down  the  pavement,  with  Baydaw  at  his  heels, 
"  I  reckon  now  I'm  making  a  great  goose  of 
myself  over  a  dog."  He  turned,  and  looked 
back.  The  boy  was  standing  where  he  had  left 


TO   THE   GREEN    HIT. IS  7$ 

him,  a  lonely  little  figure  in  the  great  waste  of 
the  city,  the  boy  who  had  rescued  the  dog.  He 
wondered  if  some  day  some  good  heart  would 
not  come  along  that  way  and  rescue  the  boy. 
Then  the  good  farrier  stopped :  there  was  an 
empty  chair  at  his  place,  there  was  always  din- 
ner enough  for  two,  there  was  a  bed  that  no- 
body occupied,  and  the  old  shop  would  be  less 
dreary  for  a  young  face  to  shine  there.  There 
are  many,  many  young  faces  in  the  city,  faces 
that  might  shine  in  the  old  shop,  but  that  would 
grow  hard  and  grimy  with  the  sin  of  the  city. 
One  less  would  never  be  noticed,  but  what  a 
difference  it  would  make  to  the  owner  of  the 
face.  The  good  farrier  looked  again  at  the  des- 
olate little  figure  standing  before  the  open  door 
in  the  moonlight.  Then  he  strode  swiftly  back, 
and  confronted  the  astonished  boy : 

"  I  say,  there ;  dang  it  all !  you  come,  too." 
And,  an  hour  later,  they  three  started  for  the 
green  nflls,  and  the  rivers  that  flow  right  along : 
the  farrier,  the  dog,  and  his  fellow. 


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